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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070927">Panopticon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b'>jenna221b</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Trickety Boo 2020, emphasis on the implied</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 00:40:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“There appeared to be two miracles at work in the exact same place. At the exact same time. I’m sure you know such an amount of power for one… <em>angel</em> would be—”</p><p>“Miraculous?” Aziraphale interrupts. Irritation goads him into boldness. Do they honestly believe he is such a fool? Such a coward? There is no force, whether on Earth or in Heaven, that could possibly get him to implicate Crowley.</p><p>Michael’s expression hardens into steel. “Lying isn’t worth the trouble, Aziraphale.”</p><p>And, while it is an incredibly muted sound, Aziraphale chances a scoff. He knows he is being too blasé, too daring, but he can’t help it; he is buoyed by the memory of a rakish demon doing the impossible, acting like the greatest act of love was the most natural, easiest thing in the world. He thinks of that night, how Crowley had fallen asleep without even finishing his glass of brandy, soles still pink and raw. He thinks: <em>oh, my dear, you are worth all the trouble in the world.</em></p><p>Aziraphale smiles at Michael sweetly. Unflinching. “Ah, not to worry,” he says. “I’m afraid angels cannot lie.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Angels (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Trick-Or-Treat!</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Panopticon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>inspired by a prompt for Trickety Boo 2020: 'cursed.'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>4004 B.C.</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>The demon Crawly steps out from the shelter of Aziraphale’s wing.</p><p>“Should report back downstairs,” he says. Surely that can’t be a grimace, passing briefly across his face?</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He twists his fingers together. “I—I don’t suppose, that is, if it’s not too much—well, trouble, if you wouldn’t mention a-all that business with the sword, and, well, me…” He trails off at the utter absurdity of his request.</p><p>Crawly stares at him. Then, he shakes his head with a smile.</p><p>“You know, it’s a funny thing, this garden,” he says. Aziraphale can somehow tell that, while he sounds genuinely thoughtful, the demon is rather good at acting. “It’s the sun, I reckon. Plays tricks with the eyes. In fact, I don’t think I saw a flaming sword at all.” He smirks. “Nor an angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale does not say thank you—bit of a risk, that, twice in one day. He hopes that he looks grateful enough, though.</p><p>When Crawly saunters off, with a vague, “I’ll be seeing you, angel,” (which Aziraphale thinks should probably sound more foreboding, surely?), it only then occurs to him that he has not told Crawly his name.</p><p>“It’s Aziraphale,” he says, and then—</p><p>A sudden shock of pain. His forehead aches, like a warning. <em>Knowledge you should not have divulged…</em></p><p>Crawly turns around. “Aziraphale,” he says, uncertain, like he’s testing out his own voice. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Perfectly. Apologies, it’s just… too much sun, I suppose,” the angel lies.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>3004 B.C.</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>It’s a horrible feeling, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Aziraphale dances around it, smiles through every meeting, every assurance that Their Eyes are everywhere. And yet, not once do they bring up the flaming sword.</p><p>He doesn’t want to hope too soon. He keeps Crawly at an arm’s length during the Flood, ensuring that every conversation is short and clipped. Every time he glances up, a little lance of pain shoots through him.</p><p>But, then, next meeting, Gabriel is pinning him with a fixed grin. “Aziraphale,” he says, teeth bared. “I thought we had an <em>understanding</em>. No miracles on the ark.”</p><p><em>Ah</em>, Aziraphale thinks, stunned. He recalls Crawly, huddled with trembling children as the boat careened through the tempest. It should have been impossible. Crawly had glared at Aziraphale through strands of wet hair, as if daring him to say something. It had been the easiest thing in the world, for Aziraphale to feign ignorance.</p><p>Aziraphale stares at Gabriel. He pretends to look stricken, ashamed. <em>You don’t know</em>, he realises, near giddy with relief. <em>You can’t tell who creates the miracles</em>.</p><p> Many years from now, this knowledge will, eventually, make him agree to an Arrangement. It will be so much more than that. A reprieve. A real Miracle.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>1941</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It flares abruptly, like an invisible needle is piercing the skin around his temples. It’s not a coincidence, he knows that (oh, he knows). It happens just as he delicately places Crowley’s feet into the water. He had dared another miracle, just a little one, to shift the water into an analgesic.</p><p><em>My, my,</em> Aziraphale thinks, with a surge of anger he hasn’t allowed himself to feel for decades. <em>You didn’t like that, did you?</em></p><p>He doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t, not when Crowley is still trying to suppress a wince. His toes betray him, twitching in the water. Aziraphale makes sure to carefully time any laboured breaths he needs to take, hiding them underneath the splashes of water.</p><p>He starts drying Crowley’s feet with a towel, until Crowley says, in an undertone, “I can manage.”</p><p>Aziraphale draws back. The pain recedes somewhat, but it’s a persistent feeling all the same. <em>Don’t get too comfortable, now</em>.</p><p>Crowley glances up at him. He’s gingerly nudging the towel aside, and Aziraphale notes with fondness that it’s folded into an impeccable square on the floor. Then, he takes his glasses off. His eyes move with slow consideration, across Aziraphale’s face.</p><p>“Are you… hurt?” Crowley asks. He’s frowning.</p><p>“Certainly not,” Aziraphale says. “You’re by far the injured party.”</p><p>“S’just…” Crowley’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re clenching your teeth something awful, angel.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, you notice. How do you always notice?</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale stands with a brisk, “No, I’m fit as a fiddle.” He prepares to distract, as always, already babbling about a nightcap, but Crowley is shaking his head.</p><p>“No, don’t you—you always do this.”</p><p>Crowley reaches out, across the couch, and catches Aziraphale by the wrist. It’s a gentle hold, but it still makes Aziraphale freeze in place.</p><p>“Look,” Crowley says. His voice is low and serious. “You’d tell me if—” He breaks off with a little sigh of frustration, as if he’s struggling to find the right words. “Do you need… help? Anything?”</p><p>Aziraphale moves backwards, only slightly. Crowley immediately drops his hand.</p><p>“You’ve helped more than enough tonight,” Aziraphale replies. His gaze drifts away from Crowley, landing on the bag of books safely tucked away into a corner of the shop. “Although I do hope you won’t get into any trouble for that—ah—demonic miracle.” And, yes, bringing that up is another convenient distraction, but it doesn’t stop Aziraphale from meaning it.</p><p>Crowley’s answering smile is a slow and gentle thing. From that alone, it’s like Aziraphale can hear the <em>alright, angel. I’ll drop it. Go on and get that nightcap, I’ll be here.</em> But, instead, what Crowley says out loud is another miracle all on its own: “Haven’t you ever thought that you’re worth the trouble?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“We picked up some traces of a large miracle,” Michael says. Her voice is affectedly curious. Aziraphale knows she is already fully aware, but he sits through the song and dance, sits through the painfully long pause. “Involving a church?”</p><p>“Oh, yes. It was…most necessary, I assure you.”</p><p>Michael taps her finger on the piece of paper. “It’s funny,” she says. “There appeared to be two miracles at work in the exact same place. At the exact same time. I’m sure you know such an amount of power for one… <em>angel</em> would be—”</p><p>“Miraculous?” Aziraphale interrupts. Irritation goads him into boldness. Do they honestly believe he is such a fool? Such a coward? There is no force, whether on Earth or in Heaven, that could possibly get him to implicate Crowley.</p><p>Michael’s expression hardens into steel. “Lying isn’t worth the trouble, Aziraphale.”</p><p>And, while it is an incredibly muted sound, Aziraphale chances a scoff. He knows he is being too blasé, too daring, but he can’t help it; he is buoyed by the memory of a rakish demon doing the impossible, acting like the greatest act of love was the most natural, easiest thing in the world. He thinks of that night, how Crowley had fallen asleep without even finishing his glass of brandy, soles still pink and raw. He thinks: <em>oh, my dear, you are worth all the trouble in the world</em>.</p><p>Aziraphale smiles at Michael sweetly. Unflinching. “Ah, not to worry,” he says. “I’m afraid angels cannot lie.”</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>1967</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>Aziraphale wakes to his cheek stinging—he’s on the floor. He breathes in. Dust. Old pages. The bookshop.</p><p>He stands shakily. He starts to rub his face, but stops at the feeling of something wet on his hand. His stomach lurches. Blood?</p><p>…No. Ink.  He can’t remember writing it, but there it is, unmistakable: scrawled on the back of his hand are the words <em>‘Tell Crowley.’</em></p><p>He runs the tap, waits for the water to turn scorching, the steam rising, tap squeaking in warning, before thrusting his hand underneath it. Aziraphale keeps going, until his skin is blistering red, and no trace of ink remains. But, the panic is still there, building in his chest, but seemingly without a cause. Surely, he must know, he <em>must</em> know…</p><p>As if in a dream, he registers that he is moving, picking up the telephone, dialling… <em>please… oh, God, please…</em></p><p>Click. The words spill out, garbled in their urgency: <em>“Don’t use the Holy Water.”</em></p><p>A long pause.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Oh, the rush of relief at hearing Crowley’s voice. But, Aziraphale recognises the tone of it, that all too placid, false calm. He’s heard it a lot, over the years.</p><p>“I can’t—” And, even though what follows makes no sense, Aziraphale can’t stop himself. It feels awfully like he’s in the eye of a storm, or on a ravaged beach, unable to hold back the tide. “I can’t remember.”</p><p>Another long pause. Aziraphale presses his ear against the receiver so hard it hurts.</p><p>“Ah,” Crowley says. Then, too gently, too kindly, he adds, “I think… think you’re a bit drunk. Look, just—give yourself a few minutes, and I’ll…” His voice sounds a little farther away, like he’s putting the phone down.</p><p>Aziraphale’s chest tightens. “<em>No</em>,” he breathes. “P-please, don’t go. I—” And, embarrassingly, all at once, he bursts into tears.</p><p>There’s a clatter on the line. Crowley’s voice, near again, calling out his name. If Aziraphale closes his eyes, he could imagine that he is here, in the bookshop, whispering in his ear. “Aziraphale! Shit, what’s…? Oh, angel, you’re—it’s alright.”</p><p>Against all logic, knowing Crowley can’t see him, Aziraphale shakes his head. He swallows through more tears, knows he’s making wretched, gasping noises. He can’t stop. It’s mortifying.</p><p>“Hey, hey, listen to me, okay? Are you—can you look outside a window?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze darts around, before settling at the window behind his desk. The curtains are only partly drawn, enough for him to see a glimpse of the street outside.</p><p>“Y-yes,” he manages.</p><p>“Okay,” Crowley says. “Right, can—could you look out there, and just… um, count to ten, s’that alright?”</p><p>Another pause, but not as weighted. Despite the silence, Aziraphale knows Crowley is still there, waiting for him. And, suddenly, breathing comes a little easier. “Of… of course. I—I’m terribly sorry to have—”</p><p>“Stop there. You’re fine, angel,” Crowley says softly. “Ten, okay?”</p><p>So, Aziraphale counts. By the time he has reached the number three, he can see the warm glow of headlights streaming through the window. He appreciates that Crowley must be taking care not to fly in like a whirlwind; the Bentley is parked with slow deliberation; he opens the shop door as if it’s one of his normal afternoon visits.</p><p>It feels like it takes an excruciatingly long time for Aziraphale to hang up the phone. But, it must only be a moment, for once he has, Crowley’s hands are gently guiding him towards his armchair, wrapped around his forearms. </p><p>Aziraphale sits. Crowley hovers, crouched in front of him.</p><p>“It’s just insurance,” he says quietly. “Trust me.”</p><p>“It’s not a question of—” Aziraphale swallows. “I…I do.”</p><p>Crowley tilts his head. “Your hand…?”</p><p>Aziraphale flexes the fingers, forcibly keeping his whole arm rigid so as not to shake. “Oh, I…boiling water, you see. The kettle. Clumsy.”</p><p>Crowley makes a noise that’s not quite a tut, more a concerned hum. Aziraphale clears his throat.</p><p>“I am sorry, you know. There was no need for—for you to drive here because of a foolish phone call.”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head. “It’s not foolish. I’m glad you called. ” He pats Aziraphale’s knee, and stands up. “Don’t like the thought of you alone, worrying just because of…”</p><p><em>There is no ‘just’</em>, Aziraphale thinks fiercely. <em>Not when it comes to you</em>.</p><p>Crowley gives a little smile. He jerks his head towards the stove. “I’ll get the tea. I’ll give the kettle a talking-to while I’m at.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiles back. It’s a false comfort, but he revels in it. As the kettle whistles, he pushes back the sudden chill glimmer of a thought: Sandalphon's smirk, Uriel whispering, <em>“You didn’t think we’d just let you get away with it?”</em></p><p>
  
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>2019</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>Crowley’s head is nodding onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. His breathing is deepening already, but he’s still trying to speak, despite his words trailing off increasingly: “Mm…m’sorry, we need to… think of…” His fingers curl weakly against Aziraphale’s palm.</p><p>Aziraphale leans closer towards him. “Oh, you leave that to me. Get some rest.”</p><p>It is a herculean effort to keep his voice hushed and gentle. Aziraphale knows he is only delaying the inevitable. But, just for one moment, he wants… oh, he wants to believe that he has the answer.</p><p>In truth, it is not exactly a shock when Aziraphale reaches into his pocket, and no longer feels the scrap of paper. He stills. Instead of the carefully folded prophecy, all that remains is ash, coating his skin, slipping through his fingers. He can’t help the gasp, a quickly stifled inhale through his teeth.</p><p>On his shoulder, Crowley stirs. There’s an exhausted murmur, a half-formed noise. “…An’gl?”</p><p>“Shh,” Aziraphale says. “It’s alright.” It is suddenly so easy to ensure his voice is soft. He keeps as still as possible, despite the hammering of his heart, the tightness of his throat. At least he can do this. At least he can gift Crowley a peaceful sleep.</p><p>All too soon, the bus stops. All journeys must end. As Crowley reluctantly begins to wake, Aziraphale says, “I’m afraid I—” The words catch. He swallows. Closes his eyes to savour the closeness, and turns until his cheek is just brushing Crowley’s hair. <em>Oh, please. One last…</em> “I’m afraid I shall have to refuse your offer after all.”</p><p>Crowley’s head barely rises from Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s still drowsy, half-yawning as he asks, “What…? What’re you…?”</p><p>Aziraphale knows what has to be done. He must walk away, and not look back.</p><p>He counts for three breaths, until Crowley’s head has risen a little more. And then, he stands, and walks off the bus alone. On the last step before reaching the pavement, he hears a distant, “Shit. <em>Shit</em>.”</p><p>Oh, surely this is the hardest thing he’s ever done.</p><p>And, behind him now, a panicked shout: “Angel!”</p><p>
  <em>Don’t. Keep walking. For him.</em>
</p><p>But, Aziraphale feels a hand grab his wrist, turn him around. And, Crowley is in front of him, bearing a tremulous smile.</p><p>“Doubting my hospitality? That’s very rude of you, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale hates to do this to him, knows Crowley runs off quips when he’s teetering on a precipice of fear.</p><p>“They’re coming.” Aziraphale wills himself to speak through the building pain in his head. There’s a heavy weight of foreboding inside him. It feels like it’s crushing his ribs. “Please, I—Crowley, they mustn’t know. We can’t compromise your flat.”</p><p>Crowley isn’t smiling anymore. “Stop looking like that,” he says, sharply—not a noise birthed from scorn. It is clear that he is so very afraid.</p><p>“Like what?” Aziraphale knows it’s selfish, to keep up the conversation, he has to turn around, he has to leave…</p><p>“Like…” Crowley laughs breathily, falsely. “Like it’s the end of the world.” He tries to smile again, but it fades in an instant. “We’ve done that already, alright? We’ll face the rest together.”</p><p>“Not this time.” Aziraphale pulls his hand away from Crowley. “Don’t you see? Crowley, you still have a chance.”</p><p>Crowley is shaking his head. “No. No-no-no, stop this—you—<em>we</em> have a chance.”</p><p>“Please,” Aziraphale says. His lips feel abruptly numb, like his own breath is being leeched away from him. “There isn’t time, I…” He sways, and gasps for air. “G-go.”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley breathes. His eyes are wide and shining in the sickly amber glow of the street-light. “Aziraphale, you’re scaring me.”</p><p>The force of the pain hits like a strike of lightning, but unrelenting. Aziraphale cries out, falls to his knees…</p><p>Dimly, as if from another world, he hears Crowley screaming his name, and then everything is falling away, apart from the agony in his head, the worst it has ever been. <em>Please,</em> Aziraphale begs to no-one. <em>Just let it end</em>.</p><p>Crowley. Crowley’s arms around him. “I love you,” Aziraphale says, just as his vision goes—</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>His cheek stings dreadfully. Wooden floorboards. Dust. Old pages.</p><p>He looks up, recognises that he’s in the bookshop. Crowley is sitting in an armchair, gaze sharp. Only… only it’s<em> not</em> Crowley, not really. Aziraphale knows this instinctively.</p><p>“I’m… I’m not here, am I?” Aziraphale asks. His voice echoes strangely within his skull.</p><p>Not Crowley shrugs. “You could be.”</p><p>“But…” Aziraphale rises. His hands brush against the bookshelves. He does not want to think of them as being too solid, too real. “I don’t want to be.”</p><p>Not Crowley smiles warmly. “That’s good.”</p><p>The ceiling shakes. Faintly, from somewhere above, he hears <em>Crowley’s </em>voice. It’s splintering, wracked with grief and horror. “Oh, God. Oh, God, I… I think they’re killing you.” It doesn’t sound like he’s speaking to a higher power. The words sound numb with shock, and terribly human.</p><p>In one blink, Aziraphale is furious. How dare this happen? How dare they do this?</p><p>“I need to get out,” Aziraphale tells not Crowley, with a blazing conviction.</p><p>The image nods. “Break the connection,” he says. “You know how it’s done, you’ve seen it already.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Don’t be afraid.” And, he sounds so remarkably like <em>his</em> Crowley that Aziraphale finds it a comfort rather than eerie. “It’s your belief in it, see? You’ve got to mean it. Like renouncing an existence of the Anti-Christ.” A flicker of a fond smile. “Like driving a car through Hellfire.”</p><p>Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Get out of my head,” he whispers.</p><p>“Louder.”</p><p>“Get… get out of my head!” The floor trembles beneath his feet. Aziraphale blindly reaches for one of the shelves, but ends up pushing it, sending everything toppling. “You—you don’t deserve to be there! You never were.”</p><p>For one moment, he thinks he hears Crowley, an echoing, anguished wail: “Come back. P-please, come back to me.”</p><p>Aziraphale tilts his head upwards to scream. “You all hear me, I know you do! You were never in my head! Get out, get out, <em>get out!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When he wakes to the sight of bookshelves, his heart plummets. No. No, he can’t—he can’t be trapped in…</p><p>“<em>Y-you’re back.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale turns. He’s lying on the floor, Crowley above him. His face is dreadfully pale.</p><p>“H-how…?” Aziraphale takes a moment to just breathe. Talking feels draining. “Where…?”</p><p>“The—the Bentley was. There, suddenly.” Crowley shakes his head. He’s looking at a point just next to Aziraphale, his eyes glassy with a memory. “So, I… I hoped that the bookshop would also…” His squeezes his eyes shut, back of his hand pressed to his mouth. “I c-couldn’t leave you, not like… didn’t want you to be alone. I thought you…” He’s crying. Pained, choked sobs.</p><p>Aziraphale sits up, clings to him. Crowley’s hands are burnt around the knuckles. Sigils, Aziraphale realises. The thought strikes him, that Crowley must have been trying to contact…well. Above.</p><p>No more of that, now.</p><p>“I need to tell you something. Later.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m… I believe I’m very tired.”</p><p>He feels Crowley nod. Aziraphale closes his eyes. “It might. Well. It will be… difficult.” Crowley goes very still. Aziraphale reaches up, and curls his palm over the nape of his neck. “Shh, it’ll be alright. I promise you,” he says. It’s one of the few certainties in six thousand years. The truest faith he has.</p><p>For the first time in eternity, Aziraphale’s head is blissfully free from pain. Everything is so clear. He does not care to know if Heaven is silent with shock or a tumult of fear. There is no place for them, here. Not within him. Never.</p><p>In the morning, they’ll talk. Aziraphale will tell Crowley it all. They’ll come out the other side of it together.</p><p>For now, for tonight, Aziraphale speaks the words, the existence they have always deserved. “Oh, Crowley. We’re free. It’s only us.”</p>
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